Behind These Hazel Eyes
by pendingpotter
Summary: Broken up, deep inside, but you won't get to see the tears I cry, behind these hazel eyes. —Kelly Clarkson. AU!PS. Eventual Draco Malfoy/Dorea Lily Potter, Harry/Hermione.
1. October 31st, 1981

**Pairings**: Dorea Lily Potter/Draco Malfoy, Harry/Hermione.

**Disclaimer**: A majority of this chapter, save for the parts where my OC, Dorea, is included, is what was written by JKR in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

**Plot Description**: Harry Potter was an only child, right? Wrong. In this story, he had a sister called Dorea, who had his mum's good looks and his dad's sparkling hazel eyes. Here's the catch: Dorea is a SI-OC, from the year 2014, where her favorite books are the Harry Potter series, written by JKR. She has a dream, and she and her mother, Mrs. Lily Potter, work out a fail-proof plan to free Sirius from Azkaban, capture Peter, and defeat Lord Voldemort, all in that order. But it's often easier said than done...

* * *

**October 31st, 1981**

_A door opened, and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him the mother. He moved near the daughter after throwing his wand upon the sofa, yawning..._

_The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open..._

_He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. _

_"Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off and protect Dorea!"_

_James Potter grabbed his wand from the sofa and cast a Bubblehead Charm upon his daughter, as if that would protect her from the Darkest Lord in the century. Running into the hallway, he guarded the path that led to his wife and son._

_He laughed before he cast the curst:_

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_He had cast it just as James Potter was looking straight at the baby girl in the high chair, mouthing the words, "Stay safe, Dada loves you, stay safe..."_

_The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glow like lighting rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut..._

_He turned to the child, who was gazing at her father with wide eyes. She could sense something was wrong, and her mouth opened in a soundless plea for her daddy to get up and help save her mother and brother. _

_He snarled, "I'll get you soon, my pretty." _

_He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear ... He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand upon her either... _

_How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments... _

_He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand ... and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead ... _

_"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!" _

_"Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now." _

_"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead -" _

_"This is my last warning -" _

_"Not Harry! Please ... have mercy ... have mercy ... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please - I'll do anything ..." _

_"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!" _

_He could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all ... _

_The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all this time. He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib, and he looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing, holding his sister - _

_He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face: He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had seen that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage - _

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_And then he broke. He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped screaming, but far away ... far away ..._


	2. The Cupboard Under The Stairs

**Disclaimer**: The chapter title and all recognizable characters and/or plots belong to the lovely, elusive JKR. Dorea Lily Potter belongs to me.

* * *

** The Cupboard Under the Stairs**

I really didn't want to wake up today, but it was inevitable, of course. I mean, no matter how hard I wished things were different, they were never going to be. Today was the first day of my Freshman year in High School, and I was determined to not act like a dunderhead. In true Hermione Granger fashion, I would start off the school year with good grades.

Shaking off my thoughts, I thought to myself that I had better get up and ready myself for school, unless I wanted to be late to my first day of High School.

Opening my eyes, I awoke to pitch darkness. That was strange, I thought uneasily as I lifted my head and sat upright. It might have still been nighttime when I woke up, but I lived in New York, and usually, lights from the buildings outside my window shone through the glass no matter what time of night it was.

Right now, though, I was consumed by stifling, unnatural darkness. I was not claustrophobic, although this made me uncomfortable.

Carefully edging towards the end of the mattress I had apparently slept on before, I lightly stepped off it and landed on a hardwood floor. It was bare, but clean, as if someone had recently just fixed it up. Feeling around for a light switch, my breath hitched in my throat for some unknown reason as I turned the light on—and only one thought struck me as I stood there, completely frozen.

Where the hell am I?

Because I was sure as hell not in a cupboard. I was for damn sure not facing a built-in, nineties-esque radio on my side of the bed. I was not—

I took a deep breath. I had to calm myself down before I started throwing things. I whipped around on my heels when I heard a telltale yawn. That could not be who I thought it was—

"G' morning," mumbled the boy who was struggling to sit up on the sorry excuse for a mattress, and I could only blink at him as one name ran through my mind: _Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Double bloody fucking shit, what do I do, what the fuck do I_—

Grinning at me, the boy who I recognized as a green-eyed ten year old version of Daniel Radcliffe opened his mouth.

But before he could say anything, I beat him to the punch, the words spilling from my mouth: "Harry," I said, my eyes stuck on his face, "what's my name?"

Damn it, even my voice sounded ten-years old. And it was _British_! I'm _American,_ for God's sake! I'm not from Great Britain!

Eyeing me strangely as if he thought I was pulling his leg, Harry said, very slowly, "Dorea Potter."

_The fuck?_

"You'd better get ready before the Dursleys get up," warned Harry. He sounded as if he was used to this routine by now. My heart twisted in pain for all he had to endure, and for what he would have to endure for the next seven years.

I nodded, before reminding myself sharply, _You're dreaming. Might as well play along as long as you can until you wake up for school._

By the time Harry was in the kitchen, I found the bathroom—thank God—and, swinging open the door as loudly as I dared, hurried in, and and shut the door behind me with a sharp _snick_. I didn't want to wake up the Dream-Dursleys sooner than later and make Dream-Harry suffer.

Turning on the water, I splashed cold water on my face, just to make sure I didn't burst into tears like a big old crybaby. I was known for those kind of things, yet I didn't even feel tears pricking my eyes, which was strange. After wetting my face, I looked up into the mirror, and my jaw nearly dropped to the bottom of the sink.

I was definitely around ten years old, and my cheeks were a little plump with baby fat. I didn't look exactly how I remembered myself when I was ten, but that was probably because I was a Potter, now, instead of being a Moon—Daphne Moon.

_The Moons._ They would never have me, because I was born to Lily and James Potter in 1980, instead.

It was time I started accepting this world as reality, I told myself, pinching myself so hard that I yelped. Yeah, definitely not a dream, otherwise I would have woken up by now. Aw, damn it.

I would never again be Daphne Moon, fifteen years old, going to regular American school in 2014. I was a Potter now. I was Harry Potter's sister. Looking into the reflection of a ten-year-old girl I didn't know, I noticed my hair was a dark red, the same color as Harry's mother—_my mother,_ I thought to myself, my eyes widening—and it fell down in tumbles over my shoulder, clearly unruly. I'd brushed it as good as it got back in the cupboard, but it _still_ wouldn't get tame! Just for the record, I blamed James Potter.

Speaking of James Potter, it was clear I'd inherited his eyes—it was good to know that they hadn't died along with him. It was almost like a joke, my appearance. I thought this because Harry was always said to have been more like an identical twin of James Potter's, save for the eyes, which were his mother's. Now, I could be a twin of Lily Evans's, except for the eyes, which were my father's.

I parted my lips and examined my teeth: they were pearly white, straight, and square. _At least the Dursleys won't have to spend money on Dentist visits,_ I thought sourly, before shaking my head to rid those thoughts.

I was a whole different person, true, but I still retained knowledge from the world I have left behind. I had a set of very impressive knowledge from Harry Potter, and it would be instrumental in defeating Voldemort, long before Harry ever reached his eighteenth birthday. Of course, it wasn't fail-proof, but that didn't mean I was entirely useless. I could save Sirius Black before Harry's third year ever came upon him and his friends; I could save Ginny Weasley from her horrible first year; and I could make sure Harry's first year at Hogwarts was as normal as possible.

Taking one last look at my altered reflection—long, unruly dark auburn hair, bright hazel eyes, pearly white square teeth—I shut off the sink water, turned away from the mirror, and took several steps to the door. Lightly swinging round the door so I could exit the bathroom, I walked to the dining room table to see that all the Dursleys were currently present and eating, as well as Harry. But there was something wrong with the scenery. There should have been five plates full with food (or, at least, three plates full with food and the other two plates half-full) at the table, but there were only four plates filled with food.

My plate, naturally, was the one with food missing from it. Harry caught my eye and gave me a shrug, as if to say, _What was I supposed to do about it?_

Gee, thanks, Harry. I bit my tongue, knowing sarcasm wouldn't go over well with a ten-year-old—what was I talking about? I _am_ a ten-year-old—and looked over at Dudley Dursley, who grinned nastily at me and pointed to his stomach.

Wow, what a jerk. I hope karma bites his ass one day. (_Arse_, alright? I got to get the hang of these British words some day.)

Perfect. My first day living with the Dursleys, and I don't even have a balanced breakfast before the school day. I walked over to my seat, which was between Harry and Dudley's (go figure), and thought, _Lucky Hermione and her lucky mother and her lucky syrup-covered pancakes_.

Sitting down, I kept my eyes off my plate, unable to bear the crumbs littered on it and surveyed the living room and its occupants. Harry was chewing slowly on his last few pieces of bacon, and Vernon Dursley was still munching heartily on a toast with marmalade and butter spread on it. He was rather large, like a whale, I noted in amusement as my eyes moved critically over his form. His large mustache quivered as he ate his breakfast, and his newspaper covered his beady eyes from view. I shrugged to myself and moved on to Lily's sister, Aunt Petunia.

I was always a Petunia defender, no matter what anyone said. I always reminded myself that, once upon a time, Lily was her best friend, way before Severus had ever known the young Muggle-born witch. I always said, "Put yourselves in Petunia's shoes before you go and judge her. What if _you_ were a Muggle, and the sister of a _witch_?" Now, I sorely regretted ever saying a single word in Petunia Dursley's defense.

Because the minute my gaze crossed over Lily's sister's, Petunia's eyes snapped to mine and glared at me, positively seething (heh, oxymoron), before turning her eyes away, back to the magazine she was reading.

Wow, what was all that about? Shaking my head once more to distract myself from Aunt Petunia's life issues, I kept my eyes on my plate until each Dursley and Harry were done with their breakfast, and when they were, grabbed my rucksack and headed out the door, Harry trailing behind my heels.


	3. The Vanishing Glass

**Disclaimer**: This paragraph belongs to Chapter One of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone/Philosopher's Stone, except for my OC, Dorea Potter.

A majority of this chapter is written by Jo Rowling, from Chapter Two of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

* * *

**The Boy-Who-Lived**

Harry Potter and his sister rolled over inside their blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside Harry Potter and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he and his baby sister would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he and Dorea Potter would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley… He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!"

* * *

**The Vanishing Glass**

"Up! Get Up! Now!"

Harry and I woke with a start. Our aunt rapped on the door again.

_Chapter Two,_ I thought giddily, my eyes shooting straight open, _here I come._

"Up!" she screeched. I heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Harry rolled on to his back, assuming the expression of someone trying to remember a very good dream.

In a flash, our aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," muttered Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

I groaned with Harry.

"What did you say?" our aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing..." Harry and I said at the same time. We weren't twins, but we were as close as could be; how could you not be, teaming up against the Dursleys in this cooped up cupboard?

Dudley's birthday—how could have we forgotten? Harry and I got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. We each found a pair under our bed, and pulled a spider off of them. I had gotten over my uneasiness with the insects as soon as I woke up in the Magical world—or rather, Harry Potter's cupboard.

When we dressed, we went down the hall into the kitchen. The table, predictably, was hidden underneath all of Dudley's birthday presents.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen just as Harry was turning over the bacon, and I was in my seat, my back straight and my hands folded on the table. Harry was the good cook in the family—I, apparently, was a horrid cook.

"Comb your hair," he said, by way of morning greeting—it was directed to both of us. It was a well known fact that both of us had unruly hair, even though mine was dark red, like our mother's, and his was a messy jet-black, like our dad's.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley actually _did_ look a lot like Uncle Vernon—all beefy and beady watery blue eyes, and he had blonde hair, which he'd inherited from his horse-faced mother.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

_If Blacks were Muggles,_ I thought sourly, _he'd be one of them. Without all of the fat hanging off his body, of course_. He'd fit in perfectly.

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Margie's present, see, it's under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven, then," said Dudley, who was going red in the face. Harry, who could obviously see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over. I stared silently at my plate, knowing what would happen before it did—story of my life.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another _two_ presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty... thirty..."

I struggled to keep my face straight. _Oh, come on._ It couldn't be that hard to just count two more presents, for Merlin's sake.

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

It didn't help that I was imagining a very similar scene—one without the overflowing presents, one where James was ruffling Harry's hair, and Lily was sniffing in the background. A birthday that would never be. I imagined Sirius's bark of laughter, Remus's natural, gentle smile, Lily's fond but exasperated expression, James's glowing eyes...

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry, Uncle Vernon and I watched Dudley unwrap his many presents. He was just unwrapping a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take them." She jerked her head in our direction.

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's eyes glowed. I tried to match his expression, but knowing what I did, it wasn't easy. I was always more receptive and polite to the old Squib lady who lived near the Dursleys, knowing how she helped Dumbledore and Harry in his fifth year after breaking a Magical law. I was always careful not to let anything slip in regards to the Wizarding World.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry and I as if we'd caused this.

"You could just leave us here," Harry put in hopefully. I egged my brother on with furious nods, but Aunt Petunia's expression instantly soured.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"We won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take them to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "…and leave him in the car…"

"That car's new, they're not sitting in it alone," snapped Uncle Vernon.

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying. _The spoiled, bullying little git,_ I thought viciously. _If Blacks were Muggles, he'd be one of them._

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I… don't… want… him… t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shot Harry and I a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang—"Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically—and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. _Just like Peter Pettigrew,_ I thought, with an ugly grimace threatening to make its way over my face. I despised every inch of the traitorous bastard, and even more so now that I was one of the family he'd betrayed so callously, in spite of the fact that it'd been just ten years ago.

Half an hour later, Harry and I were sitting in the back of the Dursleys' with Piers and Dudley. I was squished in the backseat with Harry, Dudley, and Piers, however I was between Harry and Piers, so it wasn't _that_ bad, I suppose.

But before we'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry and I aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, Potters—any funny business, anything at all — and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry.

"Honestly," I interjected, and Harry nodded his head so vehemently I was seriously afraid it was going to fall off. He sprinted towards the car, and Uncle Vernon made to follow him, but I stuck an arm out before he could even lift one foot.

His piggy little eyes were slits, narrowing in on me.

"Please," I said, my eyes carefully stuck on his, "if Harry screws up or anything—let me take the hit for it. I don't care _how_ long the punishment is. Just do it."

For a moment, I thought he was going to reject my offer, but he just gave me a stiff nod and a grunt, like a troll. I almost wanted to hug the man, but then I remembered the last time someone hugged Mr. Vernon Dursley around the middle—twelve years ago, on November 1st, 1981—and just barely refrained myself from doing so.

While we were in the car, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia.

"...roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook us. I was almost inclined to agree, until I realized that the man I was agreeing with was _Uncle Vernon._

In the next moment, Harry said, "I had a dream about a motorcycle. It was flying."

I winced at the back of my throat as Uncle Vernon went, almost nearly crashing into the car in front all the while, "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered. I glowered at them dangerously, wishing for a wand, but since Harry and I weren't eleven years old yet, I had to wait. At least it wouldn't be too long before we both got one, since my birthday was a day after my brother's—August 1st, 1980—but still.

"I know they don't. It was only a dream," said Harry. But he looked like he wished he didn't say anything. He caught my gaze, and I stared back into his sad, wistful green eyes, identical to our mother's. It was like he was wishing it wasn't dream, and I wanted so much to tell him that it was never a dream, that he _had_ flown in a motorcycle when he was only a year old, but he would ask how I knew it, and I couldn't see a way out of _that_ hole. My eyes reflected his, and for a moment, I almost forgot everything that happened in Book One of Harry Potter.

* * *

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. Dudley and Piers hit the ice cream vendor as soon as they could, and the Dursleys bought them large chocolate ice cream cones. But before they could hurry Harry and I away, the smiling lady in the ice cream truck asked us what we wanted. I thought for a moment Lily Potter would have approved of the Muggle—she reminded me of a ruffle of the head, a bark of laughter—but then I shook my head, thinking, _Why on Earth am I acting like our mother is alive_?

It was clear that Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. We even got to go to the zoo restaurant, where Dudley had a tantrum because there wasn't enough ice cream on top of his Knickerbocker Glory. Harry and I were allowed to finish the first, but since it wasn't such a large helping, we were unsure as to how to split it.

_You take it,_ my eyes urged him, beckoning to take the Knickerbocker Glory. He shook his head once, obviously determined to give it to me, but I was stubborn. And anyone who read any Jily fanfiction in my day—the ship name for James Potter and Lily Evans—knew that both James and Lily were as stubborn as hell.

To prove my point, I told him silently, _Take it, or else I'm giving it back to Dudley and we'll see how he takes it._ I grinned as his eyes widened and he knew that I would go to extreme lengths to make this actually happen, so he took the dessert, just to appease me.

I knew that later on, I would probably regret my insane decision, but I had more than a few square meals in my lifetime. Harry deserved the helping of dessert more than I did.

In something that seemed like a flash, we were in the Reptile House, and I lightly groaned in the back of my throat as I saw Dudley's nose pressed against a tank which contained the glistening brown coils of a snake.

And then his father came lumbering to his side, rapping his knuckles on the glass to make the snake move. In the next moment, Dudley shuffled away from the glass, and Harry took his cousin's place. I moved behind Harry carefully, eyeing the disastrous thing. _How could people have ever thought this little thing of a snake was _Nagini? It was a widespread rumor that Harry released Lord Voldemort's pet snake, Nagini, from the zoo the Dursleys went to in Chapter Two, however JKR disproved all of those theories, reminding our fandom that the large snake was rumored to be in Albania, just like her master.

I shuddered, because that place was where Bertha Jorkins died, and Lord Voldemort lingered after he was killed by one-year-old Harry Potter.

A deafening shout made Harry and the snake jump, but I stood where I was, because I expected this would happen as soon as we made our way to the zoo in the first place. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said to Harry menacingly, and he punched my brother straight into the ribs. But something... strange happened. And it didn't follow canon at all. But at the moment I didn't give two flying fucks about what happened or didn't happen in the book. It shouldn't have bothered me—I should have had more control. But Dudley was blasted away from my brother as soon as he made contact with Harry's stomach, and the deafening _thump_ he made as he hit the floor several feet away from us was as loud as an earthquake in California. My eyes widened—it must have been a _Reducto_ curse that I hit my cousin with, and as I turned to look at Uncle Vernon, his eyes were wild, literally.

I visibly gulped, and Harry came to my side instantly, swinging an arm around my shoulders. He must have known that I was the one that caused the explosion.

Dudley got up heavily, and soon enough, we were all back in the car. Apparently, Aunt Petunia was not drinking a cup of hot, strong tea, so the Boa Constrictor was not released from the tank, but I suppose Harry's magic was satisfied enough that Dudley had gotten our revenge.

* * *

But Uncle Vernon was _far_ from satisfied when he made sure Piers was safely out of the house. He said to Harry, "Go—cupboard—stay—no meals—" and as soon as Harry ran as fast as he could to the cupboard, he rounded on me, bearing on me like a bull.

I straightened my back, lifting my head in a defiant stance. _What would James Potter do? What would James Potter do?_ This frantic thought raced all around in my head, making me dizzy, but in the back of my mind, I thought, _This is exactly what he would do._ He would stand straight in the face of punishment, without flinching, just like he had done when Lord Voldemort killed him in front of his baby daughter.

"You'd better make good on your promise, Potter," Uncle Vernon snarled at me viciously, "Because you won't see the light of day in ages."

It was well into the summer holidays before I _did_ see the light of day.

* * *

**A/N**: Please review. It means the world to me, and it also encourages me to write more! :)


	4. The Tabby Cat

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing you recognize. All properties you recognize belong to JKR, who is superior to me in every way. I only own my OC, Dorea Lily Potter.

* * *

**The Tabby Cat**

We heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon behind his paper.

"Make Dorea get it."

"Get the mail, Dorea."

Without comment, because I didn't want to get hit with the Smeltings stick, I crossed over to the door and pulled it open, carefully closing it behind me. I had to think of a way to hide the letters from the Dursleys. I made sure to wear a sweatshirt today, because it had big pockets, and even though the Dursleys gave me strange looks as I wore it today, because the temperature wasn't _that_ cold today, I ignored them. I _had_ to find a way to hide the letters from the Dursleys. I'd rather not make them go all the way to Cokeworth, just because Harry would get to meet Hagrid there.

It hurt my heart that I was deleting Hagrid from the equation by doing this, but Harry would still be his friend, and I was doing no harm. Besides, the Harry Potter books didn't exist here, so no one would know what they were missing.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Aunt Marge, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and two letters. Thank God I was a witch. I folded up the two envelopes, sure that they were meant for Harry and I, and lo and behold, I was correct, since each letter had heavy, thick parchment. Thanking Merlin that both envelopes fit inside my sweater, even though it made me look awkward.

"Hurry up, girl!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

I handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the envelope from Marge, curling my fists subtly inside my jacket and taking care to stay far away from Dudley, who was too involved in his breakfast to notice anything about me.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and turned over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk."

"Oh, I do hope she gets better," Aunt Petunia commented idly.

I tugged on Harry's shirt collar, making a face at him that said, _Meet me at the cupboard. URGENT._ He nodded once, eyeing me curiously before abandoning his breakfast and saying he had to go to the bathroom. It was a mark of how the Dursleys never welcomed us into their family that they ignored us: Aunt Petunia was still reading the postcard like nothing happened, Dudley was shoveling down his toast, and Uncle Vernon was surveying the bill in distaste.

Once I joined Harry in the cupboard, he faced me at once, demanding to know what was wrong.

"This" was my answer, and I took out Harry's envelope, unfolding it delicately and handing it to him. His eyes widened. Of course they did, because no one had ever sent us letters in our entire life. I took out my own envelope, holding my breath as I did. I wanted to capture this moment and savor it forever.

Unfolding it as if it was my life—which, soon, it would be—I pulled apart the folded letter and looked at the front of the envelope first.

* * *

_Dorea Potter_

_Cupboard Under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

* * *

This was the same exact letter that my eleven-year-old mother and father had once held in their hands. It was a miracle. I was a witch. I'd be going into the same school year as Harry, my brother, and I would not be Sorted into any house but Gryffindor, our parents' house: otherwise, I'd find a way to burn the Sorting Hat in the middle of the night.

"Are you sure it's not a prank?" Harry asked me, his eyes narrowing as he turned the envelope over and over in his hands. I rolled my eyes at him, rapping my knuckles on my head and shooting him a look that clearly said, _Are you daft_?

"Harry, has anyone sent us _any_ letters in our _entire_ life?" I asked him rhetorically. He shook his head 'no', and I continued. "Besides, what prank involves rich parchment like _this_?" I emphasized my last word by rubbing the parchment with my thumb. I turned the envelope over, and I saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter _H._

"I don't know. What _is_ this—?" But he cut himself off as soon as he unfolded his letter completely. As he read the paragraph, his jaw fell to the ocean floor.

I read mine with equal reverence, my heart thudding in my chest.

* * *

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT_ and_ WIZARDRY

HEADMASTER: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

_Dear Miss Dorea Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. _

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

* * *

"We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into—what?" Harry rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, evidently confused. I opened my mouth to explain, a sharp _ding!_ of the doorbell cut off what I was about to tell him.

We stared at each other until we heard a shocked, "_You_ were her Transfiguration Professor!"

_I'm about to meet Professor Minerva McGonagall._ The truth didn't hit home until Harry and I raced out from the Cupboard, darted into Dudley's second bedroom, and shut the door carefully behind us. Aunt Petunia's face was in front of the doorway a moment later, and she hissed, "you have a visitor! Come now!"

As we scurried into the living room, Professor McGonagall's eyes zeroed in on us. Her lips thinned when she saw Harry and the condition he was in. But when her gaze landed on mine, she was even _more_ shocked than before. What was wrong with me? Why was I worse off than Harry?

She was very good at hiding her true feelings, though—I supposed she must have been, since she had always dealt with the Marauders and handed out their detentions, aided and abetted by a very sharp Muggle-Born named Lily Evans—because she smiled stiffly a moment later and said, "Mr. and Miss Potter. I will be pleased to see you at your new school come this September. You _have_ shown your Aunt and Uncle your letters, haven't you?" Sharp as flint. Harry and I exchanged a glance, and handed our letters to the Professor. "My name is Professor McGonagall, and I will be your Transfiguration teacher," she added, as an afterthought.

"You haven't." A statement. "Well, well, well. You must be aware that your niece and nephew are a witch and wizard, respectively, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley?"

Aunt Petunia paled, her face as gray as porridge.

"They will be going to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft of Wizardry, this 1 September, just like Mr. and Mrs. Potter before them, who were excellent students and Head Boy and Girl respectively, as you already know."

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrow. I exchanged a puzzled look with Harry, who asked, "They were good students? Head Boy and Girl?"

Professor McGonagall looked shocked. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon glared at Harry and I, who smiled back innocently. It wasn't our fault we didn't know a whit about our parents, when really, we should be teeming with information.

"Of course they were," said Professor McGonagall, as if this should be common knowledge. It was, to me, since I'd read so much fanfiction about James and Lily, but Harry didn't know as much, and I had to appear as if I didn't, either. "I'm, personally, shocked that you don't know enough about your parents. They were a pleasure to teach before—before—" At this, she gulped, whipping out a handkerchief out of nowhere and dabbing at her eyes. "—you know the story. They were brave, courageous Gryffindors, the very best—"

"What's a Gryffindor?" I asked, lying through my teeth. "Before what happened?"

If Professor McGonagall looked disbelieving before, it was nothing as to what she looked now. She took a fierce glare at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who suddenly bowed their heads and looked down at the floor. Hagrid was intimidating in size and weight, but Professor McGonagall was scary in a much more subtle way. She could have been a Slytherin, for God's sake.

"They—" As she said the word, she pointed a shaky finger at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who huddled together, "—didn't tell you? They didn't tell you what was in the letter Headmaster Dumbledore left them, all those years ago? The reason why you both were orphaned to the Dursleys, so long ago?"

"_What_ letter?" Harry asked eagerly, and I opened my mouth, like I'd never heard any of this before in my entire life. Which, I haven't, in _this_ life, that is.

Professor McGonagall stood tall, bearing down on the Dursleys. Her hands clenched into tight fists, and her eyes flashed. She transformed, quite suddenly, into a _cat_, a tabby cat with square markings around her eyes, resembling her square glasses, and Uncle Vernon choked in disbelief. She lunged forward, claws sheathed but teeth bared, and snapped at Dudley's arm. Leaning back, she transformed back into herself, and she was once again a crisp Professor.

"I apologize," Professor McGonagall said, her eyes flashing, clearly unapologetic. The Dursleys fussed over Dudley's arms, which were perfectly unscarred, and Aunt Petunia looked straight at Professor McGonagall, her eyes terrified.

Ignoring the Dursleys, Professor McGonagall turned toward Harry and I. I felt respect for this Professor—clearly, not everyone would have done just what she had done to Dudley Dursley in defense of us.

After a moment's pause, Professor McGonagall said, "You look a lot like your father. He was an excellent Head Boy, despite, some, er, _tendencies_ to cause trouble." Harry stared at her, and I smiled cheekily. _You mean Marauder tendencies, Professor?_ I almost said, just to rile her up, but then I remembered, just in time, that I wasn't supposed to know about Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black, nor Remus Lupin.

"But you have your mother's eyes, and she was the definition of a good girl," she said abruptly, turning to me, sniffling a bit as she surveyed me. It was apparent that Professor McGonagall favored our mother, because her eyes turned red-rimmed as she looked at me, all over my body, focusing on my hair and body structure.

"You look the exact picture of Mrs. Potter," said Professor McGonagall to me, warmly. Her eyes sparkled. "But you have James's eyes."

I didn't know quite what to say to her, but I only smiled politely. I already established this, and I was pleased with my looks, and I wasn't surprised with Harry's looks, given that I was a huge fan of Daniel Radcliffe, the boy who would never act in the movies everyone cherished so dearly. He still existed, of course, but not in the way I had known him to be back in my past life. No more Emma Watson, no more Rupert Grint...

A tearing of an envelope startled me and interrupted my internal monologue, and I looked over to see Harry opening his letter, unfurling it and reading it over once more. Professor McGonagall handed me my letter, and I opened it as well, reading the list of requirements on it.

"Since your Uncle and Aunt aren't fond towards any mention of magic," said Professor McGonagall in equal distaste, "I will escort you to Diagon Alley to provide you your supplies." "We're not paying you for them, you hear me?" It came from Uncle Vernon, who eyed the witch distrustfully. "Their good-for-nothing parents should have been here to do all this, but they got themselves blown up, and here we are."

Harry's eyes stretched wide, and I burst out, _really_ angry, "Blown up? You told Harry and I they died in a car crash?"

"Car crash? How could a mere _car crash_ kill Lily and James Potter?" said Professor McGonagall in complete outrage, her eyes flickering between amber and dark brown. "It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry and Dorea Potter not knowing their own story when every kid in our world knows their names!"

"But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Professor McGonagall's face. She looked suddenly anxious.

"I never expected this," she said in a low voice, "I had no idea, when Headmaster Dumbledore told me there might be getting trouble of you, how much you didn't know. Mr. and Miss Potter, I don't know if I'm the right person to tell you—but someone has to. You can't go off to Hogwarts without knowing."

She threw a seething look at the Dursleys.

"Well, it's best if I tell you as much as I know. On the night Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid, the Gamekeeper of Hogwarts, dropped you and your sister off on Number Four, Privet Drive, he left a letter describing the events that happened before." No one dared interrupted her, not even the Dursleys, who, in fact, looked nonchalant about the whole business. You would think, as the Potters' aunt, Petunia would be a bit more teary-eyed, but no such luck. She was as cold and unmoving as our parents' gravestones. "The day before you were dropped off was the day your parents died defending you two from the greatest Dark Lord in a century." Her nostrils flared. "You must refer to him as You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or nothing at all." "But why?" I asked the Professor, even though I already knew why. "What's his real name?" "I suppose you earned the right," said Professor McGonagall, her eyes darkening. "His name was—_is_—Lord Voldemort."

Harry and I exchanged a glance. I could have asked for his real name, but I think that would have been pushing the limits.

"Anyway—this wizard, about twenty years ago, starting searching for followers. He sure did get them, too—they were—_are_—known as Death Eaters. Dark days, Harry, Dorea. We didn't know who to trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange witches and wizards...terrible things happened. He was taking over. Of course, a few wizards and witches stood up to him—they were apart of a secret organization, devoted to getting rid of him." _The Order of the Phoenix._ "And he killed them—horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Professor Albus Dumbledore was the only person He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was afraid of, since he matched him in sheer power.

Now, your Mum and Dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew. They were Head Girl and Boy in their day!" At this, Professor McGonagall looked truly proud of them, and, despite of what I knew would happen next, I smiled widely. Harry looked fascinated. "I suppose the real mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to to get the Potters on his side before. I suppose he probably knew they were too close to our side to ever want anything to do with the Dark Side.

"All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you were living, on Halloween ten years ago. He came to your house and—and—" At this, she gave a great sniff, as if she couldn't bear to go on. I couldn't blame her. Tears welled at the back of my eyes, and I blinked furiously. Harry just stared at Professor McGonagall. "I apologize," she said. "But it's that sad—I knew your mother and father, and they were the best people at heart. Anyways... He killed them. And then—and this is the real mystery of the thing—he tried to kill you, too, Mr. Potter. He wanted to make a clean job of it, I assume. But he couldn't do it. Have you ever wondered how you got that particular mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you—it took care of your Mum and Dad, and your house, even. But it didn't work on you, Mr. Potter, and that's why you're famous."

Harry kept blinking, like he couldn't believe a word she was saying. But it was valid—the emotion in her tone couldn't be faked. I just looked at the woman. Apparently I wasn't as famous—everyone knew Harry's name, but couldn't remember mine. I didn't care. It'd be better for me if Harry overshadowed me, anyways.

"No one ever lived after he decided to kill them, no one except you two, and he killed some of the best witches and wizards of age—the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts—and you were only babies, and you lived."

As Professor McGonagall's story came to a close, a flash of green light and a snarl sounded in my mind—words that were never there before. _I'll get you soon, my pretty._ And a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Professor McGonagall was watching us sorrowfully.

"Hagrid took you two from the ruined house on Professor Dumbledore's orders. He brought you to Number Four, Privet Drive—"

"Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. I just looked at him, expecting the worse, but Harry jumped. He was glaring at the witch, his fists clenched. "Now, you listen here, Potters," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured—and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion—asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types—just what I'd expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end—"

But at that moment, Professor McGonagall let out a dangerous snarl, resemblant of the tabby cat inside of her. "I'm warning you, Dursley—one more word—"

Uncle Vernon's courage failed yet again, and he flattened himself against the wall and stayed silent.

Harry, meanwhile, still had hundreds of questions to ask. I stayed silent, because I already knew all of this, more than anyone in this room could imagine.

"But what happened to Vol—sorry, I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Good question, Mr. Potter. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he visited Godric's Hollow. It makes you even more famous. That was the biggest mystery, you see—he was getting more and powerful—why'd he go?

"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. I don't know for certain if he had enough human in him left to die. Some of the Wizarding World say he's still out there, biding his time, but I don't believe it. People who were on his side came back to ours." At this, Professor McGonagall's voice turned disbelieving. "I don't reckon they could have done if he was coming back.

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere, except that he lost his powers. He was too weak to carry on. Because something about you finished him, Mr. Potter. There was something going on that night that he hadn't counted on—_I_ don't know what it was, no one does—" _Except me. And Dumbledore, _I added silently. But I kept my eyes on McGonagall and kept silent. "But something about you stumped him, all right." Professor McGonagall looked at Harry and I with respect and warmth in her eyes, but I was sure there was a horrible mistake. I didn't say so, of course, but how could I, in the name of Merlin, be a witch? I would have been content to just live out my life here as a Muggle. I could still give my plan's outline to Hermione Granger and defeat the Horcruxes through her. I couldn't be a witch, but with as Lily and James Potter as my parents, how could I not be?

"Hagrid," Harry said quietly, voicing my own thoughts, "I think you must have made a mistake. I don't think I can be a wizard."

To both Harry and my surprise, Professor McGonagall gave a brisk chuckle. "Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you were scared, angry, or happy?"

Now that I thought back, Professor McGonagall's words _did_ make sense. What about that time in the Zoo, where I'd blasted Dudley away when he'd tried to hurt Harry? And the time where Harry and I were out late, and every time we passed a lamppost, the lights flickered off when there was no one around to do so.

I really _was_ a witch.

Harry smiled at Professor McGonagall, and my lips twitched, but I was a bit more discomforted by the information than Harry was. Of course Harry felt elated by it—how could he not? He was eleven-years-old, meant to be a wizard. But I was an American Muggle, from the year 2014, where witches and wizards only existed in books. I was filled with doubt about my witchly tendencies, even though it was a solid fact I couldn't change. If I was Harry's sister, I'd have to be a witch—no child of Lily and James would be a Muggle.

"See?" Professor McGonagall said. "Harry and Dorea Potter, not a wizard and witch—you wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

"Haven't I told you they're not going?" Uncle Vernon hissed, seeming to gain back his courage at the word "famous." My lips twitched. _Jealous, aren't we_?

But before Uncle Vernon could continue, Professor McGonagall interrupted abruptly, "It'll be a pleasure to take you and your sister to Diagon Alley. Many would give much to escort the Potter children to their first visit to the Magical world," added Professor McGonagall sagely.

"Oh, yes," barked Aunt Petunia suddenly, and Harry and I jumped. I'd forgotten Aunt Petunia was even here! "How could they not be, when everyone loved perfect Lily Evans and her good-for-nothing husband, that boy with your eyes?" she suddenly snapped at me, and my eyes widened as if on cue. "Mum and Dad positively _loved_ having a witch in the family, and they _heartily_ approved of your father, unnatural thing he was." _The Only Thing Petunia Dursley and Severus Snape agreed on: Hatred For James Potter_, I thought sourly. "They deserved everything those Potters got. And we got landed with you in the end!"

Professor McGonagall's eyes flashed with dangerous precision, but she decided to ignore the Dursleys, because after a moment's pause, she gathered Harry and I in an embrace, grabbed hold of our arms, and turned on the spot in Side-Along Apparition. The last thing I saw was Uncle Vernon lunging out at us to grab us, and Aunt Petunia giving a horrible, inhuman shriek, and Dudley staring at us like it was all our fault, and we Apparated away from the nightmare in a flash.

* * *

We Apparated into the Leaky Cauldron, and Tom the barman almost jumped five feet in the air. He smiled his toothy smile, his eyes recognizing Professor McGonagall, naturally, and—

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this—can this be—?"

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor." I stifled a scowl. What about me? What was I doing, wearing an Invisibility Cloak?

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Harry clearly didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at my brother. I kept my head down—clearly I was being ignored in favor of him, and I didn't like the uncomfortable flutters in my stomach it gave me. Of course I was not jealous of Harry, but I wasn't all happy-go-lucky about the fact that he was receiving all of the attention while I was on the sidelines. What about my father? Lily protected Harry, yeah, but so did my father!

I kept all of these words inside my head, knowing it wouldn't do anyone good if I shouted out these words in front of everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. It was Harry's time to shine, not mine.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs, and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. Professor McGonagall was sniffing haughtily but trying to conceal a smile, and me? I was shoved away without a care in the world. Fucking hell. If this was how it was going to be at Hogwarts, I wasn't sure if I liked this new life anymore.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm so proud."

_Mr. Potter this, Mr. Potter that. What about Miss Potter, eh? He has a sister, in case all of you headcases haven't noticed,_ I thought angrily, keeping my head bent. _His father protected his wife and son and daughter without a fucking _wand. _What do you say to that?_

"Always wanted to shake your hand—I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle." This was the man who arrived at Number Four with Hestia Jones to pick up the Dursleys at the beginning of Deathly Hallows!

"I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top hat fell off in his excitement. _So have I,_ I added in my head. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

"He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands again and again—Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. I shuddered visibly, relieved for once that I was hidden in the dark. _That's Lord Voldemort sticking out of his turban!_ But I had to keep quiet. I couldn't ruin the whole first book and delete Hermione and Ron's friendship out of the equation.

"Professor Quirrel!" said Professor McGonagall. "Mr. Potter, Miss Potter, he will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts." "P-P-Potter," stammered Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

I scowled. Clearly, he put up a good act, although he was rather pathetic. It was easy to see why Riddle had chosen _him_.

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

"D-Defense Against the D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought. _Ha!_

But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It took nearly ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Professor McGonagall managed to make herself heard over the babble.

"We must get on—lots to buy. Come on, Harry, Dorea."

Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Professor McGonagall led us through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

"Three up, two across," Professor McGonagall muttered. "Right, stand back, Mr. and Miss Potter." She tapped the wall with her wand—a long, dark piece of wood.

The brick she had touched quivered—it wriggled—in the middle, a small hole appeared—it grew wider and wider—a second later we were facing an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome," said Professor McGonagall, "to Diagon Alley."

They stepped through the archway. Harry and I looked quickly over our shoulders and saw the archway shrink instantly to back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons—All Sizes—Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver—Self-stirring—Collapsible, said a sign hanging over us. Harry and I turned our heads in every direction as we walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside the Apothecary was shaking her head as we passed, saying, "Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they're mad..."

It was almost an exact replica from the movie, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought I'd have won tickets to the Harry Potter set, but this was real-life.

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium—Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys about Harry and my age had their noses pressed up against a window with broomsticks in it. _Real broomsticks._ "Look," I heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand—fastest ever—" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments I had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon...

"Gringotts," said Professor McGonagall.

We had reached a snowy white building that towered all over the other little shops. Standing besides its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was—

"Yes, that is a goblin," said Professor McGonagall quietly as we walked up the white stones toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry and I. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and, I noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as we walked inside. Now we were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

"_Enter, stranger, but take heed. Of what awaits the sin of greed, for those who take but do not earn, must pay most dearly in their turn, so if you seek beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours, thief, you have been warned, beware, of finding more than treasure there._"

A pair of goblins bowed us through the silver doors and we were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Professor McGonagall, and Harry and I made for the counter.

"Good morning," said Professor McGonagall to a free goblin. "We've come to take money out of Mr. Harry Potter and Miss Dorea Potter's safe."

"You have their key, madam?"

"Of course." Unlike Hagrid, Professor McGonagall had the keys out and ready from the moment she answered the goblin's question. The goblin looked at them closely.

"That seems to be in order. I will have someone take you to both vaults. Griphook!"

Once Griphook had come, Professor McGonagall, Harry, and I followed him toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

I was tempted to kick the bastard when I remembered him running away with the Sword of Gryffindor in the last book, but I refrained when Griphook held the door open for us. We were in a narrow passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward us. We climbed in, and were off.

We hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.

My eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but I kept them wide open. Once, I thought I saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late—we plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

When the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, we all climbed out of the it. My insides turned to jelly, but they returned to normal as soon as Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry and I gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little brown Knuts.

"This all belongs to you," said Professor McGonagall, her lips pursed into a thin smile.

All Harry's and mine—it was incredible. Professor McGonagall helped Harry and I pile some coins into a bag, one each for us.

"The gold coins are Galleons," she explained. "Seventeen Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle."

One wild car ride later, we stood blinking in the sunlight outside of Gringotts. We didn't know where to run first now we had a bag each full of money.

Twenty minutes later, we left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry and I now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl and a magnificent pitch black owl, both fast asleep with their head sunder her wing. Harry and I couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell. Professor McGonagall, who had bought our owls as a birthday present, waved off our thanks.

"We might as well get your uniforms," said Professor McGonagall, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. We entered Madam Malkin's shop, and I was feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed in all mauve.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

I gritted my teeth. _Eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy. Oh, goody._

"You can handle yourselves here, am I correct?" Professor McGonagall, asked, and I got the feeling she didn't want to interact with who was sure to be a Slytherin by the end of the year. Harry and I nodded, and she returned the gesture, striding out of the shop with her robes billowing around her, just like Severus Snape in the dungeons.

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes.

Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length, while a third witch came to me and did the same thing.

"Hello," said the boy, who kept looking at me subtly. I sighed inaudibly. What, did he expect _everyone_ to fall at his feet, just because he was a Malfoy? "Hogwarts, too?" "Yes," Harry said.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own." _You mean, _I thought viciously, _you don't see why _you_ can't have your own broomstick._ A picture showed up in my mind, and it was of Harry breaking open his new Nimbus Two Thousand, while Draco Malfoy only made it as Seeker in his second year. It instantly cheered me up. "I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow," added Draco Malfoy, and I almost snickered at the boy's assuredness in his tone. Draco had Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater, wrapped around his eleven-year-old finger.

"Have _you_ got your own broom?"

Harry started to say something, but I butted in. "No," I said, "but our father was Quidditch Captain in his day." Draco's eyes snapped to mine, and they bulged. Harry looked at me with a raised eyebrow, obviously wondering how I knew that sort of information. I gave him a Look that told him we'd talk about it later.

"Oh," Draco said. His eyes betrayed how excited he was, though, and I nearly rolled my eyes. _Boys._ "What House team was he on? Father says it'd be a crime if I didn't make the Slytherin team, and I must say, I agree."

_Like anyone asked you,_ I struggled to avoid saying.

"I don't know," I said, and his face fell. I fought a bewildered smile. This Draco Malfoy changed moods like the weather, and it was disconcerting to see the Malfoy heir not wearing an arrogant sneer or an impassive mask.

"Do you play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said firmly. It was like he wanted to get out of this conversation as quickly as he could, probably to get away from this boy and his snobby attitude, and question me about our father and how much more I knew about the late Potter than he did.

"_I _do. What House do you think you'll be in? Father says Slytherin's the _best_ House there is, and I must say, I agree." I had to refrain myself from gagging—this act of pretending to be Dorea Potter proved more trouble than it was worth. But I had to keep it up, or Harry wouldn't trust me ever again, and he would have to defeat Voldemort the hard way—by going on a little camping trip and substituting _that_ for his seventh year.

"I don't know," Harry said.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," said Harry, looking like he wished he could say something more interesting. I almost said, "_Hey! I resent that!_" But I remembered my real name, and I pursed my lips, staring into Draco Malfoy's cool, ice-blue eyes, resemblant of Lucius Malfoy.

"Where's your parents, anyways?" Draco asked Harry, and he froze. My face turned as hard as ice as I stared coolly at the future Malfoy heir.

"They're dead," I said, before Harry could answer him.

For a moment, Draco lost his composure, and he seemed shocked. But a moment later, he'd regained it, and he said, "I'm sorry." Although this time, he actually sounded like he _was_ sorry. But then he ruined the whole thing by adding, "But they were _our_ kind, weren't they?"

I wanted to punch this boy's face in, until I remembered this version of Draco Malfoy hadn't even been Sorted into Slytherin yet.

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" I bit my lip as I avoided saying the words, _No, I don't, actually, because my brother and I would have never been born if you were Headmaster. My Mum was a Muggle-born, you see, and her name was Lily Evans Potter. She defeated the Dark Lord. Don't you know her name?_ "They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them had never even heard of Hogwarts until they got the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old Wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

But before Harry or I could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool. For a heartbeat, I felt sorry for the boy, whose face looked crest fallen. I flashed him a fleeting smile, and his whole face lit up. But before he could say anything else to me, I hopped off my footstool and followed my brother.

"Well," Professor McGonagall said, after we had met up outside Madam Malkin's, "it says here on your list that we should get your wand and your Magical pet. I would suggest an owl as a pet, as they are generally considered very useful by the Wizarding World. And we should go and see Mr. Ollivander to buy your wands, Mr. and Miss Potter."

I smiled giddily, a true smile breaking out on my face. _A magic wand._ This would be where I would accept my magical conduit. It would mark the first step of becoming a witch.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as we stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Professor McGonagall sat on to wait. I felt strangely as though I had entered a very strict library; I looked at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of my neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry and I jumped, yet Professor McGonagall sat still. An old man was standing before us, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah, yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter. Dorea Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes," said Ollivander to Harry, and then he turned to me. "But you have your father's eyes. Your father favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. Excellent for Transfiguration. Your mother, on the other hand, bought a ten and a quarter inches long wand, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for Charm work."

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. I could see Harry reflected in those misty, wide eyes.

"And that's where..."

I shuddered. Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands...well, if I'd known what that wand was going out in the world to do..."

He shook his head, and, to Harry and my relief, spotted Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva! Minerva McGonagall! How nice to see you again... Fir, 9 and 1/2 inches, dragon heartstring core, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Ollivander, it was."

"Excellent," said Mr. Ollivander. Professor McGonagall nodded, and turned back to Harry. "Well now—Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er—well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

I suddenly realized that the tape measure was doing the measuring of my brother's nostrils on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

After a couple wands, he pulled out the legendary holly and phoenix feather wand. "Tricky customer, eh?" Mr. Ollivander asked, seeming to be speaking to himself. "Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. But as he raised the wand above his head, no stream of red and gold sparks appeared, and my heart stuttered. _What_?

In the spur of the moment, Ollivander snatched the wand away from my brother's hand, exchanged it for another, and passed the holly and phoenix wand to me.

I waved it around a little, feeling more than a bit stupid, and almost dropped it in shock when I felt a burning sensation inside myself. _The fuck?_ Blue and white streams shot from the piece of wood and shot itself into the air, molding a stringed heart together in midair. Professor McGonagall's jaw dropped open, and Harry stared at it, his wand hanging in his hand. I blushed fiercely, and handed my wand quickly back to Mr. Ollivander, who wrapped it up in a long, thin box with gold, thin paper.

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well, how curious..."

As Harry raised his wand and swished it down, he finally produced red and gold streams out of his wand.

"Yours is Beechwood and Dragon Heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible. _Yours,_ on the other hand, Miss Potter," he said, looking into my eyes, reflecting me in his gaze, "is holly-and-phoenix, eleven inches, nice and supple."

I tried to smile, but it didn't come out quite right. As soon as Mr. Ollivander was done wrapping up the wands, we paid for our wands and stepped out into the sunlight.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as we made our way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry and I didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; we didn't even notice how much people were gawking at us on the Underground, laden as we were with all our funny-shaped packages, with the snowy and pitch black owls asleep in their cages on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry and I only realized where we were when Professor McGonagall tapped us on the shoulder.

"Are you all right, Harry, Dorea?" It didn't escape me that she had called us by our first names, something she only rarely did, like give a smile or a homework-free day to all her classes. "You're both very quiet."

"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander… but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry—I mean, the night our parents died."

"You're special to me," I said, managing to sound serious, and I wrapped one arm around his shoulders, to comfort him. He smiled at me.

Professor McGonagall leaned across the table. Behind the stern features and the crisp mask, she wore a very kind, rare smile.

"Don't worry, Mr. Potter. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, and you'll be just fine. Just be yourself. I know it's hard. You've been singled out, and that's always hard. But you'll have a great time at Hogwarts—I do. Everyone does. Your mother and father did, too."

Professor McGonagall helped Harry and I on to the train that would take us back to the Dursleys, then handed us each an envelope. "This is your ticket for Hogwarts, " he said. "First of September at King's Cross—It will all be on your ticket. If you have any problems with your family, don't hesitate to confide in me. Your owls will know where to find me. I'll be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter, Miss Potter."

The train pulled out of the station. Harry and I wanted to watch Professor McGonagall until she was out of sight; we rose in our seats and pressed our noses against the window, but we blinked and she had gone.

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**A/N**: Please don't forget to review, it'd mean alot. :) It helps me write faster and makes me feel more confident. Review if you want to see more Dorea! ;)


	5. Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!

**A/N**: I own nothing you recognize, and there is no profit gained or involved here.

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**Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak!**

I woke up, bright and early. Of course, I had no way of knowing if it actually was bright and early like I had assumed, since the cupboard was still pitch dark, but I had a feeling today was going to be quite a long day. _Obviously_ it would be, because today was the day I would be going home, or at least the home it was to Lord Voldemort, Severus Snape, and all the other abandoned boys who felt the same way. It would be Harry's real home, because Number 4, Privet Drive, never had.

Clicking on the lights, I shut my eyes tight to block out the piercing yellow. Opening my eyes once more, I moved quickly to the small wardrobe I used to share with Harry, discarding my second-hand pajamas (thankfully, they weren't Dudley's) and replacing them with my new Hogwarts uniform. I didn't wear the robes over them, since I was sure Aunt Petunia would not appreciate this, but I couldn't bear to wear those horrid Muggle clothes one more day, so I would dress for the school early. Throwing a sweater (or jumper, as the British people call them) on, I made my way to the small door and clicked it open. Harry was pacing in front of me, his eyes excited and filled with cautious hope. It was as if he couldn't believe this day would come.

_Well, neither did I._

He halted when he saw me come out, and he smiled at me. "Ready for the big day?" he asked, and I smiled back at him. _Oh, Harry_, I thought. _If only you knew what a big day it would really be_. Today, he would meet the other part of The Golden Trio, the famed three youngsters who defeated Voldemort and his Horcruxes and escaped Gringotts on a dragon, and fought a troll in the girls' bathroom on the second floor, won the Triwizard Tournament... they would do so many things.

And what would I do? I often asked myself this the past year, wondering where I would fit in. Obviously, I couldn't squeeze myself in with Hermione, Ron, and Harry. That plot was always too overused and cliche. I could watch silently from afar, like a Slytherin version of Harry did in one of my favorite AU fanfictions, _Saving Connor_. I could protect Harry, just like Slytherin!Harry protected Connor. I wouldn't make Harry look more powerful than I am, but I would _help_ him. I would befriend Hermione, just until she would befriend Harry and Ron after the Troll attack, and when Hermione inevitably abandoned me, I would befriend Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood. I didn't want Luna to grow up without friends before her fifth year, like in the canon timeline, and Ginny was a terribly lonely girl in her first year, with awful things happening to her, like Tom Marvolo Riddle—the sixteen year old Lord Voldemort—raping her mind, and other things. I would teach Ginny to become more confident earlier in life, as well as give her some tips on catching Harry beforehand.

"Yeah," I said to Harry, who gave me a thumbs up before running a hand through his hair and beginning his pacing again. I rolled my eyes and stood still, too keyed up to eat anything, although I wasn't going to keep pacing like Harry was doing.

A few hours later, we were sitting in the car, waiting to arrive at Kings Cross. I fidgeted, and Harry and I kept exchanging glances. Dudley was quivering beside us, and I was pretty sure the only reason he was there at all instead of blowing up an alien on his computer at home was because Aunt Petunia had talked him into sitting next to me, _the freak_.

This was insignificant to me, because today, at least in my mind, was going to be monumental. I dearly wished I had my phone, because then I could take pictures, but then I remembered Muggle things, especially technology, did not work around magical things. Pity, that.

There was a nervous flutter in my heart as I waited for my brother and I to arrive at the platform. I replayed the scenes from the book and the movie constantly over and over in my head: _Ron meets Harry. Harry and Ron meets Neville and Hermione. Draco introduces himself and Crabbe and Goyle, and Pettigrew attacks Goyle. Hermione comes in once more and leaves. The train arrives at Hogwarts._ I also included little things, like Ginny's complaint, or Fred and George gawking at Harry's scar. At the end of the car ride, I decided I would stay with Harry until Ron came in, and I would go find Hermione. I would help Neville find his toad with a quick _Accio!_ after Hermione met the boys, and all would be well.

I smiled to myself, even though Harry didn't notice. He was too busy looking out the window, tapping his fingers on his knees in a bout of nervous jitters. All would be well. That would be my motto, and it was a good one. No one would know what it meant, not even in Harry's seventh year. Those words were very special to me, as it were to everyone of my fellow fans back home. The last words of the Harry Potter series were, in fact, '_All was well._' And I would comfort myself with the words, '_All would be well_."

Uncle Vernon parked the car just outside of the station, and before Harry and I could make our way out of the car, Harry caught my hand and gave it a squeeze. He didn't let go, not even after I squeezed it back. Jumping out of the car seat, we turned the opposite way to visit the trunk, but Uncle Vernon had already unloaded our luggage.

By the look of things, Harry thought it strangely unusual, but I knew better. Uncle Vernon was deliriously happy about the fact he would be sending not only one, but _two_ Potter brats off to some boarding school where he would only have to see us during the school holidays, excluding Christmas and Halloween. He was more than happy about this, and I could tell by the way his beady eyes crinkled as he pushed our carts into the station.

"Have a nice term," said Uncle Vernon nastily, with a gleam in his eyes I didn't like, and strode off toward his car with an extra spring in his step, as if he'd just been granted a promotion by his company. He slammed the drivers' door shut and Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon drove away, laughing. I could see Harry was very confused by all this, but I was eager to meet Mrs. Weasley and see little Ginny Weasley, so I hurried him off, shaking off his concerns.

At that moment, a group of people passed just behind my brother and I, and my heart stuttered as I caught a few words of what they were saying: "—Packed with Muggles, of course—"

Harry and I swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair—the Weasleys. Harry nudged me, and we both pushed our carts toward the family. They stopped and so did us, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

"Now, what's the platform number?" asked Molly Weasley, and I smiled so largely my face was sure to split in half. Harry turned to look at me with a questioning look, but ten-year-old Ginny Weasley squeaked, "Nine and three quarters! Mum, can't I go..."

I couldn't stop smiling at this. Harry looked very eager as he unconsciously leaned in to hear what the family's patriarch would say next, and I was marveling at our first sighting of what would become our adopted family in just under a year. They seemed to be truly a wonderful family.

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet," snapped Mrs. Weasley to a crest-fallen ten-year-old. "All right, Percy, you go first." Said Weasley promptly nodded at his mother, turned around, straightened his posture and walked off to the barrier that would send him to Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

"Fred, you next," said Mrs. Weasley after Percy disappeared. I stifled a giggle, because I knew what was going to happen next. The twins were _hilarious_. Maybe I would befriend them, too, so I wouldn't be lonely this year. Of course, I would have Harry, but he would be spending large amounts of time with Ron, and later on in the year, Hermione Granger.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said a twin I was pretty sure was Fred anyways. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear," apologized Mrs. Weasley. My smile turned into a smirk. Boys will be boys, especially Gred and Forge.

"Only joking, I am Fred," Fred told his mother, and off he went. His twin called for him to hurry up, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone. It was crazy to watch this happen as an outsider, because this was really the first sign of magic I've ever seen, save Diagon Alley.

George did the same after Fred had done it, and he was gone, too.

Harry nudged me once more, and we both set off to confront Mrs. Weasley.

"Excuse me," Harry said to Mrs. Weasley. He put on his most polite voice and smiled at her.

"Hello dear," said Mrs. Weasley, looking positively overjoyed. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too." She pointed to, lo and behold, Ron Weasley: he was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," Harry said. He looked like he didn't quite know what to say to that, so he only said: "The thing is—the thing is, we don't know how to—"

"How to get onto the platform?" interjected Mrs. Weasley kindly, and Harry nodded. "Not to worry. All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"Er, okay," said Harry. He pushed his trolley around and paused, staring at the barrier uncertainly. I joined him with my trolley and shoved him playfully, and he stared crossly at me, probably because I interrupted his concentration. Oops?

"Aw, come on, Harry," I joked. "Don't take too long, or the barrier might just disappear!" Okay, so that wasn't a complete joke. Harry smiled, though, and the thought was pushed away from my mind.

"You're right, 'Rea," agreed Harry cheerfully, and he turned his head towards the wall and waited. After a mass of students passed us through, he winked at me and pushed his trolley forward, gaining speed, going faster and faster until—

He was gone! Just like that! Immediately, I started to panic. Where did he go? What if I was lost forever and I had to go back to the Dursleys? What if I couldn't get through the barrier? I didn't have a Flying Ford Anglia, and I couldn't Apparate. Oh, dammit, dammit, double bloody fucking _shit_...

And then, in a split second, I took a deep breath and calmed myself down. I pictured glowing, flashing green eyes, and sparkling, bright hazel eyes, just like mine. Immediately, I felt a sense of determination and calmness wash over me, and before I knew it, I was racing to the barrier, sidestepping everyone who stood in my way, and then... I phased through the wall.

I'm not joking. Seriously.

_I phased through the fucking platform!_

Immediately, my eyes were blinded by the throng of so many people at once. I'd never been near so many people in my entire life! (Okay, make that _two_ lives.) I suppose people enjoyed to flock Harry whenever they caught his eye, just because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, but that was _nothing_ compared to what was going on right before my eyes. And there was a real live Hogwarts Express! I could only stand frozen in shock, my eyes glued to the age-old train, until someone barreled straight into me, knocking me to the ground in an embarrassing fashion.

A strong grip lifted me up, and I was about to apologize. "I'm _so _sorry!" I started to say, turning to whoever it was that knocked into me. "Thank you—"

_Draco Malfoy_.

You heard me right. The 1/2 of Drapple, people—a pairing consisting of Draco and an apple back home. I'm not lying, trust me—was standing right in front of me, his eyes wide and apologetic. He was lacking his two cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, but that didn't mean he was a scumbag himself, the little creep.

...Alright, so I suppose I was being a _bit_ harsh, seeing as how said scumbag was just an innocent eleven-year-old at the moment. (Well, mostly innocent.)

"Thank you for picking me up," I finished what I was initially going to say. It wouldn't do to get on the wrong side of Malfoy so quickly, and besides, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing my surname. I would just play it safe... for now.

I mean, he was prepared to _kill Dumbledore_ in order to save his own stinking skin. It reminded me of someone else who betrayed his three best friends, just to keep on living. It disgusted me.

I schooled my features into a polite, curious gaze as I also added, "You're Draco, aren't you? Draco Malfoy," I stated. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I am," Draco said, but he wasn't boasting about it like I thought he would. He just eyed me strangely in a way that was starting to bother me. "You want to come join my compartment? I could prepare a seat for you!" He started getting excited, and I had no clue why. "I mean, some of my friends will ask questions, but I don't care. I'll cover for you, and..." he trailed off, obviously realizing he was rambling. "Um, well, you can join me, if you want," he mumbled at the end, and I just stared at him.

_What was all that about_?

I felt slightly disgusted at myself for even thinking I could be tempted into walking into a compartment full of Death Eaters—or, at least, people who would be Death Eaters very soon, or acquainted with them. Pushing those thoughts away, I focused on Draco, who was lifting his head in a slightly hopeful way. It wasn't driven by defiance or aversion. It was just... pure innocence, really.

And I found I couldn't hold sixteen year old Draco's actions against _this_ Draco's actions. He was just an eleven year old, I reminded myself firmly. He didn't know what he was getting into. Even five years later, Dumbledore _knew_ that. He had wanted to save Draco's soul, didn't he?

'_Draco, Draco. You are not a killer._'

"No thank you," I declined his offer gently, letting him down as kindly as I could. "I have to wait for my brother, you see...He went through the barrier first, and I'm waiting for him."

Draco's face fell. But then, his eyes lit up, and he said, "Well, at least I can help you with your trunk! And then you can wait in your compartment for your brother to come."

I cringed slightly, just so he wouldn't catch me doing so and ask awkward questions. Draco mentioning Harry in any way that wasn't vicious felt _wrong_. I almost couldn't wait for Draco to meet my brother in that compartment, so that things could go back to normal. Smiling at him, I nodded to show that I agreed with what he was going to do for me. "Thank you," I added again, but it wasn't just for picking me up when I fell down. It was for his offer that was completely suicidal in a den of Slytherin Purebloods (even if said Slytherin Purebloods were only eleven-years-old, and he was a Malfoy), and it was also for his offer to help me with my trunk and owl cage.

Whipping out his wand, Draco uttered an incantation that oddly sounded like, "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" and pointed his wand at my trunk, carefully turning it airborne, and drew it to an empty compartment. While he made quick work of setting my possessions correctly, I fell in step beside him, and took a huge leap onto the train.

After he was finished, he turned to face me, his face fresh with cheerfulness and boyish charm. "You're always welcomed to join me in my compartment," he offered, smiling at me. "What's your surname, anyways?"

"Hey! Draco!" came a call from far away, and Draco looked at me apologetically once more, shrugging his shoulders.

"I've gotta go," he whispered breathlessly, and before I could do or say anything, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders tightly and let go just as quickly, whipping around and pounding back towards his friends. My mouth dropped open. Had Draco Malfoy just hugged me? Granted, it was a one-arm half-sort-of-hug, but still, it counted in my book. And in my book, Death-Eaters-To-Be did not start giving hugs to their worst enemy's sister!

I don't know how long I stood there, completely frozen, my mouth still open in shock and disbelief, before Hermione Granger found me.

She was already wearing her robes, and I heard the words, "—_I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?_" before Hermione even opened her mouth. I smiled widely, and she looked a mite shocked. I guess no one had ever bothered to introduce themselves to the girl with a grin, like I just had. Okay, so what if the grin was a little manic? I was meeting _Hermione Granger_ in the flesh! And she looked every bit the Emma Watson I knew from back home, except for minor differences.

"Hello," I jumped in before she could hurry herself away. Hermione Granger blinked at me. "My name is Dorea, what's yours?"

"H—Hermione," stuttered the Muggle-born in question. "Hermione Granger. Dorea? I think I've heard of a Dorea before, I forget where, though."

I hid a scowl as I said, "Oh, you must be thinking of my paternal grandmother—her name was Dorea." I smiled brightly at Hermione, trying to distract her. "What House do you think you'll be in tonight? I hope I'll be in Gryffindor," I added. "My parents were both in it."

"That's interesting," said Hermione, still standing stiffly in front of me. "I've been asking around, and Gryffindor sounds by far the best, I also heard Professor Dumbledore was in it. I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad," Hermione added quickly, and I hid a knowing smile. _What's the point of the House when the most Ravenclaw student there is, is a Gryffindor_?

"I hope we both get into Gryffindor," I offered with another secretive smile, and she nodded timidly.

"I'm going to go check on the other compartments," Hermione said. "It was nice meeting you, Dorea! Hope to see you around, soon." And before I knew it, my chance meeting with the brightest witch of our age was gone in a flash. I sighed, wondering where time had gone. I pulled out _Hogwarts, A History_, and decided to play it safe. There were other times, safer times, where I could work on Plan Get Rid Of Voldemort Before Harry's Seventh Year.

After I had read quite a bit of the magical book, around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside the corridor and a smiling witch slid back the door and said, "Anything off the cart, dear?"

I haven't had any breakfast, so I smiled back and jumped off my seat, placing my book carefully on the seat next to me. I bought some pumpkin pasties, Cauldron Cakes, and as many Chocolate Frogs as I could carry, and handed her a galleon and six Sickles. She kindly smiled at me once more, thanked me, and turned right around back the way I came.

It was a bit lonely, chewing my candy all by myself, and I wished Harry was with me so we could share our sweets—he must have probably bought the whole cart by now. But it was also nice to be alone, where I didn't have to fake a role and act out my part. I could relax, and that was a rare occasion in itself.

I unwrapped a Chocolate Frog and picked up a card. It said,

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Go figure, that I'd get the same card as Harry. I shrugged and packed away all of my other candies, determined to have a good appetite for the Welcoming Feast.

After a while, the sky got dark, and I could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

I crammed my pockets with the last of my sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor. I struggled to find my brother, and saw a bright ginger head among the first-years. I pushed and shoved my way through the children, offering "Pardon me"s to anyone I might have stepped on or irritated.

"This is wonderful, isn't it?" I whispered to Harry, and he jumped up in shock.

He caught my gaze, and for some reason, he looked angry. "Where were you when I got on the train?" he said in a low, furious tone. I blinked at him. Had I offended him or something?

"I didn't know where you were, and Draco Malfoy helped me with my stuff, so I got distracted," I said, which was a lie, because I really wanted to give him time to bond with Ron.

But it was the wrong thing to say.

"So you chose Draco Malfoy over your own brother," he hissed, clearly in a mood, and I looked at him in offended shock. Ron shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clearly singled out. The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. We followed the crowd, shivering in the cold night air.

"_Excuse me_?" I said in a deadly tone, but Harry didn't budge. The stupid prat! "For your information, _dear brother,_ Draco Malfoy kindly offered me to join his compartment, but I refused!"

I gave Ron an apologetic, fleeting glance, who only shrugged his shoulders with a _What did you expect?_ look on his face, and didn't even look to see what Harry's expression was before I wheeled around on my heels and stomped through the crowd, desperate to find Hermione.

It worked, because a moment later, I joined a bushy-haired eleven-year-old and her stout, chubby-sized friend—Neville Longbottom. It was hard to picture this meek child with the Gryffindor Sword, eating a plate of food sitting on one of the House tables at the end of the Battle, surrounded by a group of admirers, but hopefully, it wouldn't have to come to that.

"Hello, Hermione, and what's your name?" I said with a grin, and before Hermione or Neville could answer, we all heard a familiar voice:

"Firs' years! Firs' years, follow me! C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, we followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of us that I thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville Longbottom sniffed once or twice.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Unlike the first book, Harry, who was still furious with me, went with Ron into a boat alone, while I was followed into my boat by Neville and Hermione.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then — FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. We were all silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over us as we sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; we all bent our heads and the little boats carried us through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. We were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking us right underneath the castle, until we reached a kind of underground harbor, where we clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then we clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

We walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

* * *

The door swung open at once. Professor McGonagall stood there, hidden underneath a mask of a stern face with crisp mannerisms, but I thought I could see a hint of the Professor that lead us through Diagon Alley that day, when her lips twitched as she caught sight of Hermione, Neville and I.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys' house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was too high to make out (even though I knew it was bewitched to be a cloud-covered night sky), and a magnificent marble staircase facing us led to the upper floors.

We followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. I could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right—the rest of the school must already be here—but Professor McGonagall showed us into a small, empty chamber off the hall.

We crowded in, standing rather closer together than we would usually have done, peering about nervously. "Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. I nervously tried to flatten my hair, which, naturally, proved fruitless.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. I could see Neville swallow.

"How exactly do they Sort us into Houses?"

"I've tried to find it in _Hogwarts, A History_, but it doesn't say anything on the subject," Hermione told Neville, sounding disappointed. I kept my eyes on the floor, bored with the conversation. I already knew how this was going to go—I _had_ read the books, after all.

Then something happened that made us jump about a foot in the air — several people behind me screamed.

"The _f_—?" I almost cursed, but then—

I gasped. So did the people around me. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room, talking to one another and hardly glancing at us first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance—" _It's just the Fat Friar,_ I calmed myself down.

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost—I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed us.

Nobody answered.

"New students!" said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nodded mutely.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you know."

"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

I got into line behind Neville and in front of Hermione, who trembled, looking as nervous as Professor Quirrell, who was talking to Snape at the teachers' table. Our little group walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

It was like walking into Jo Rowling's head, as she had once aptly put it in an interview, because it was truly magical: it was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets.

At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led our little group up here, so that we came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at us looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. I turned my eyes upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.

Hermione whispered, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History._"

I looked quickly down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of us all. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. I took a deep breath.

_Hell will freeze over before I'm not Sorted into Gryffindor, _I reminded myself. I was the daughter of James and Lily, who were Head Boy and Girl of the 1977 class, both pure Gryffindor. There was no chance in hell I would be Sorted anywhere else.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth—and the hat began to sing:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see. I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me. You can keep your bowlers black, your top hats sleek and tall, for I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, and I can cap them all. There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see, so try me on and I will tell you where you ought to be. _

_You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart. Their daring nerve and chivalry sets Gryffindors apart. You might belong in Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal, those patient Hufflepuffs are true and unafraid of toil. Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind, where those of wit and learning will always find their kind._

_Or perhaps in Slytherin, where you'll make your real friends. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. So put me on! Don't be afraid! And don't get in a flap! You're in safe hands (though I have none) for I'm the Sorting Hat!_"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause—

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat. _There goes Neville Longbottom's future wife,_ I thought cheekily as the table on the right cheered and clapped when Hannah sat down at the Hufflepuff table.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them. I recognized this boy as the one who'd called Hermione out on her brilliance when she'd introduced Galleons as secret message operators to the D.A.

My mind wandered as "Brocklehurst, Mandy" became a Ravenclaw, and "Brown, Lavender" became the first Gryffindor of 1991. Every one of these eleven-year-olds, little did the teachers know, would become essential to the Voldemort War, especially three children waiting in line to be Sorted into their respective Houses. Harry, Hermione, and Ron. All born Gryffindors, of course.

I saw Harry looking a little green just a moment before Hermione's Sorting, and I ached to comfort him, but I was in no position to do so as we'd just quarreled before we entered the Great Hall. _Boys will be boys,_ I thought haughtily.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Before Hermione almost ran to the stool, I squeezed her hand, and she smiled at me unsurely as she made her way to the stool and jammed the hat on her head eagerly.

It took a little while, but just as I knew it would, Hermione was declared a Gryffindor. Of course she was!

I heard a not-so-subtle groan from Ron as Hermione practically skipped off to the Gryffindor table. I shot him a vicious glare, and he looked back at me, wide-eyed, as if wondering what he'd done wrong. _Dunderhead._

Neville Longbottom was called soon after, and he fell over on his way to the stool. A couple of nervous first-years laughed hysterically, and I rolled my eyes. _They'll all be singing a different tune soon in seventh year,_ I comforted myself, and it worked. I sported a bright smile as the hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" and this time, as Neville stared into my eyes, he _didn't_ forget to give the Hat to Professor McGonagall before he went off to his assigned table.

Draco swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Draco went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself. I smiled at him out of a spur of the moment, and his face lit up. I was surprised at how I affected the young boy, but then again, it could only help him on the road to the Light when it was his time to kill Dumbledore in five more years.

There weren't many people left now. "Moon"… , "Nott"… , "Parkinson"… , then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil"… , then "Perks, Sally-Anne"… , and then, at last—

"Potter, Dorea!"

There were surprised—_definitely_ surprised—whispers and mumbles when I stepped out of line, and I spun around on my heel. I gave them all a death glare, and they shut up, just as I hoped they would.

As I sat upon the stool and took the hat from Professor McGonagall, I threw the hat over my head, and there was darkness and silence from every corner. Until —

_Ah,_ the hat said. _You're not from here, aren't you_?

I gave the mental equivalent of a roll of the eyes. _Oh, goody, here we go again. Just get on with it! I know you know I'm a Muggle who read the books._

_You have just the right amount of loyalty to your family, _the hat said knowledgeably, ignoring my comments. _You're hardworking, too. _

_Don't you dare put me in Hufflepuff if you know what's good for you,_ I snapped back, and I saw the hat in my mind cup its nonexistent head with its nonexistent fist.

_Hm, no Hufflepuff?_

_Damn right, _I couldn't help think, and the hat chortled. But then it turned as serious as it could be.

_You're planning on changing what you know will happen, _it said to me. It wasn't a statement. Was it a warning? _If you're Sorted into Hufflepuff, you might be able to sit this all out..._

_I'm no coward, _I snarled, and it nodded its nonexistent head in acknowledgement.

_You aren't, _it said, _but you're afraid. Terrified. Of course, anyone would be if they had _that_ information in their head every waking morning..._

_How dare you! I'm not afraid, _I argued, but it wasn't true, and in my heart I could sense that the Sorting Hat knew that all too well. Images flashed through my mind: eleven-year-old Ron Weasley getting knocked out by the Queen in the chess board at the end of the year... Hermione getting Petrified, Ginny Weasley near-death... Harry facing nearly a hundred Dementors with Hermione and his god-father, my brother carrying Cedric Diggory's dead body via Portkey... Sirius Black being thrown into the Viel by Bellatrix Lestrange, dead... Severus Snape pointing his wand, square at Albus Dumbledore's chest... Nymphadora and Remus Lupin lying on the ground, looking so peaceful they might have been sleeping for all I knew...

_Put me in Gryffindor or send me back home, _I stated stubbornly, and my tone brooked no room for argument.

"Better be—GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted, and I took a deep breath, took off the hat, handed it to Professor McGonagall, and stepped towards the table of my new House.

The twins were catcalling, and several people stood up to shake my hand, but I brushed them all away, sat myself next to Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom, exchanged a smile with the former and a wink with the former, and watched my brother get Sorted into Gryffindor:

"Potter, Harry!"

"_Potter,_ did she say?" "_The_ Harry Potter?"

I scowled, unable to conceal my annoyance, and Hermione put a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to thank her for the comfort, but I had to keep my eyes on Harry.

The hat dropped over Harry's eyes, and he waited. It was a good few moments before the hat shouted, "Better be — GRYFFINDOR!"

I saw my brother walk shakily to the table I was at, and he didn't seem to notice he was getting the loudest call yet. I kept my anger burning inside my chest—I didn't want to ruin my brother's big moment, because I know how sick he must have been just a few moments before, but when _I_ got Sorted, all I got were a few surprised whispers and catcalling from the Weasley twins. It made me want to punch something. My mother and brother were more famous than me because they'd been in the nursery, but my father and I were in the lounge—that was where Voldemort first hit! Didn't James Potter deserve as much credit as his wife? The injustice of it all made my blood boil under the surface, but I kept quiet. Because I didn't want to act the part of a jealous sister—Merlin knows Lily Potter already went through it once in a lifetime, and once was enough.

I kept my eyes on my plate, unsure if I wanted to eat any food tonight. "Turpin, Lisa" became a Ravenclaw, and then it was Ron's turn.

"Weasley, Ron!"

He looked pale green—perfect for a Christmas tree, with all of his red hair. But the moment the hat touched his head, it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" and Harry let out a gust of relief.

Ron collapsed into his seat right next to Harry, as Percy Weasley was pompously congratulating his brother and "Zabini, Blaise" was made a Slytherin.

Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

I laughed at his odd words, and I felt a bit of my anger dissipate. _Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak._

But Harry looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or not.

I saw him mumble a few words to Percy Weasley, which I sure were the words, "_Is he_—_a bit mad_?"

"Mad?" said Percy airily, who I could hear much better than Harry's hesitant, uncertain tone of voice. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

I saw Harry's mouth fall open, and I swiveled my head to my own empty plate. Hermione Granger nudged me from the seat beside me, and I turned my head to glance at her inquiringly.

She nodded towards the food. "Don't you want to eat anything?" I looked at her plate, which was filled to the brim with vegetables and cold cuts. _Classic Hermione_.

"I suppose," I whispered, and she smiled. I took a plate of steak and piled a piece onto my plate, along with a dash of mashed potatoes. I spooned the potato into my mouth, wishing this feast would just get itself over with. I knew people often said the Welcoming Feast food was spectacular, but I didn't have much of an appetite at the moment.

I suppose the real reason was because of the reactions of everybody due to Harry and I's sorting. It was inevitable, when you think of it, that Harry should receive the most attention, because he was the one who ultimately "defeated" the Dark Lord in the end. I stabbed my piece of steak with my knife and crossed it with my fork, cutting a small piece to bite into. My eyes traveled to Professor Severus Snape unwittingly. I wondered how he'd dealt with Lily's death since October 31st, 1981.

His dark eyes snapped to mine, and I lifted my head, staring right back in his face. I wasn't going to let him control me. Unlike my brother, I had no scar. Professor Snape blinked once, and returned to his meal.

I sighed, chewing on my steak, as Seamus exclaimed from across the table, "_Nearly_ Headless? How could you be _Nearly_ Headless?"

This was going to be one bloody hell of a first year.

* * *

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall kid with red hair."

"Wearing the glasses?" "Did you see his face?" "Did you see his scar?"

It was starting to get—_annoying_, for a lack of words. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at Harry, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. They brushed by me as if I wore an Invisibility Cloak at all hours, and it was starting to get on my nerves.

On the other hand, the castle of Hogwarts was absolutely surreal, beyond any of my wildest dreams, beyond even the dreams of those who produced the Harry Potter movies in my past life. _This_ was truly like walking into Jo Rowling's head.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and I was sure the coats of armor could walk.

It was like a castle out of a fairytale book, and it seemed fitting, because this _was_, technically, a castle out of a fairytale book.

Professor Flitwick was a tiny little wizard Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. Of course, once he reached my name, he gave no sign of me being any different than any other student, but then—

"Miss Potter!" he squeaked, while I stared, wide-eyed at the Professor. "You look just like the esteemed Lily Potter, who was once a favorite student of mine, yes, she was," he rambled on fondly, and I didn't know what else to do but smile weakly at him. "But you have the name of your grandmother, who also got Outstandings on all of her N.E.W.T scores, including Charms. Both were brilliant witches, Miss Potter, and I'm sure you'll live up to their names."

I was blushing profusely by the time he ended his little speech, and everyone was staring at me, especially Harry, who looked like I'd grown two heads. "Thank you, sir," I whispered, and he nodded, all chipper, before returning to his roll call.

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was quite a different story. She gave us all a strict talking-to, and never, for a moment, gave any of my classmates any reason to think that she had once led us on a tour through Diagon Alley.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. The whole class were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, we were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle.

It seems that I had inherited James's skill with Transfiguration, because within 20 minutes, I had a needle sitting before me. Ron whispered loudly, staring wide-eyed at my needle, "Hey, how'd _she_ finish it so quick?"

By the end of the lesson, only I and Hermione Granger had made any difference to our matches; Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione and I a rare smile.

The next class was D.A.D.A, and I truly dreaded this class, because Lord Voldemort was sticking out of the back of Professor Quirrell's turban at all times, but skipping the class was out of the question.

When we arrived into the classroom, we were all strongly hit with the smell of garlic. His turban, he told us, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but we weren't sure we believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, we had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.

I only shuddered to myself visibly; _Seamus Finnigan, you do _not_ want to know the real reason how Quirrell got that turban. _

It was then that it hit me: the first ever Potions double the class of 1998 would take would be on the Friday of this week.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: My userlookup has been updated. :) It contains a more detailed version of the summary, if you are interested. I will have the sixth chapter up and ready in the very near future!


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